Spring Is Coming. Are You Ready for It?

Winter has its uses. Root vegetables, long braises, and heavy sauces that sit on the stove all afternoon. By February you’re grateful for all of it. But by March, if you’re being honest, you’re tired. The produce is tired. The menu is tired. The kitchen is tired, even if nobody’s said so out loud.

Spring doesn’t ask permission. It just arrives. The question is whether you’re paying attention when it does.

The Shift Happens Quickly

I remember standing at a supplier’s counter sometime in mid-April, years ago now, and picking up a bunch of British asparagus that had come in that morning. The smell of it. That faint, clean, green smell that you simply don’t get from the imported stuff. It sounds like a small thing. It isn’t.

That’s the moment the season turns. Not a date on a calendar. Not a trend piece in a trade magazine. Just a smell, or a texture, or a colour that tells you, ‘Right, here we go.’

Most chefs miss it because they’re still writing last season’s menus. Or they’ve already ordered. Or they’re buying on autopilot because it’s easier. I’ve done it myself, more’s the pity.

Seasonality Is Not a Trend. It’s Common Sense.

The food world has spent the last decade patting itself on the back for “discovering” seasonal cooking. Restaurants write it on their menus, producers bang on about it at trade shows, and food writers treat it as though someone invented it last Tuesday.

It isn’t new. It’s just what cooking was before we decided that convenience mattered more than quality. The fact that we now celebrate it as a philosophy says rather more about how far we’ve strayed than it does about how clever we’ve become.

Buying in season is simply buying things when they are at their best. That’s it. No philosophy required.

What’s Coming (and What to Do With It)

Here is a rough guide to what’s worth your attention over the next few weeks:

Asparagus ; The British season runs from late April into June. Do not buy it before then. The imported stuff that fills the shelves in February is limp, flavourless, and an insult to the vegetable. Wait. When the British crop comes in, you’ll know. It’ll be tight and firm, and it’ll smell of something. Snap a spear near the base; it should crack cleanly. If it bends, put it back.

Jersey Royals ; May onwards. The genuine article has a thin, almost papery skin and a smell you don’t forget: earthy, slightly mineral, and faintly sweet. Boil them in well-salted water with a sprig of mint, and dress them while warm. That’s a dish, not a side. Anything selling itself as a “Jersey Royal” before May deserves a sceptical look.

Wild Garlic ; Earlier than most spring produce, fleeting, and worth chasing. A decent supplier will have it. Some hedgerows and woodland edges carry it if you know where to look (and you have the landowner’s permission). The leaves are mild, almost sweet, with that unmistakable garlic warmth underneath. Use them quickly; they don’t keep. Wilt them into a butter sauce, blitz into a dressing, or fold through mashed potato. Don’t overthink it.

Rhubarb ; Forced rhubarb has been around since January, the pink, tender stuff grown in the dark in Yorkshire sheds. Outdoor rhubarb follows in late spring, sharper and more robust. Either way, it’s one of the most underused ingredients in professional kitchens. It isn’t just for crumble. Think about it with duck, with mackerel, with aged goat’s cheese. The acidity is useful if you treat it properly.

Spring Lamb ; Younger and leaner than the lamb you’ve been buying through winter. A different handle entirely. The fat is lighter, the flavour more delicate. Don’t cook it the same way. It doesn’t need the long treatment; it needs confidence and restraint. Season well, don’t rush it, and for goodness’ sake don’t mask it with a sauce that has more going on than the meat.

Peas and Broad Beans ; Later in the season, but worth planning for now. Fresh peas eaten raw from the pod are one of the genuinely good things in cooking. Once podded and left to sit, they starch up fast and lose the point of themselves. Buy them close to service; pod them to order if you can manage it. Broad beans need blanching and double-podding. Yes, it’s a faff. Do it anyway.

The Business Case (Since We Have to Talk About It)

Some chefs need the quality argument. Others need the numbers. Here are both.

Seasonal produce at peak condition keeps longer, which means less waste and better yield. A courgette bought in July from a decent local grower will outlast an imported one bought in January by several days, and it’ll lose less water in the pan. That affects your portion cost, your plate waste, and your gross profit. Not by a lot on any single ingredient, but consistently, across a menu, over a week’s trading, it adds up.

Out-of-season produce costs more and delivers less. You’re paying a premium for something that’s been in transit for days, possibly weeks, and has already lost much of what made it worth eating in the first place. Some chefs keep buying it because it’s on the order sheet and it’s easy. That’s not a reason. That’s a habit.

I’m not going to pretend I was always on the right side of this. There were years when I bought what was available and called it a menu. Getting older makes you a bit less daft about these things, or at least it should.

What Seasonal Menus Actually Do For You

A seasonal menu forces creative discipline. You can’t hide behind the dish that’s “always been on”. You have to think, plan, and change. Regularly.

That sounds like extra work. It is. It’s also the work. A kitchen that changes its menu with the seasons is a kitchen that’s paying attention. The brigade stays sharper. The food stays honest. The customers notice, even if they can’t tell you exactly why.

There is also this: a dish built around one genuinely excellent seasonal ingredient, handled properly, will outperform a complicated plate of mediocre components every time. Simplicity is not the same as laziness. Knowing when to leave things alone is a skill that takes longer to learn than any classical technique.

One Thing to Avoid

British asparagus is imported in February. I keep coming back to it because it’s everywhere, and it looks the part from a distance. It doesn’t taste of anything worth the plate space. If you see it on a menu in February, you know the kitchen isn’t paying attention. You have been warned.

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The Season Won’t Wait

Spring arrives on its own schedule, not yours. The asparagus comes in, the wild garlic goes over, and the Jersey Royals are done by July. Each of these things has a window, and the window closes whether or not you ordered in time.

The only question is whether you’re buying asparagus flown in from Peru in February or waiting three more weeks for the real thing. One of those decisions says something about you as a cook. The other one just says you weren’t paying attention.

If you want to know exactly what’s worth buying right now and what’s worth planning for over the coming weeks, the seasonality guide on this site breaks it all down month by month. Start with March, and move into April and May when you’re ready. No waffle, no trends. Just what’s good, when it’s good, and what to do with it. The season won’t hang about.